


Electric Bloom

by subchesters



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marking, Mild Smut, Neck Kissing, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:52:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13144170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: There seems to be forces out there acting upon a shared mission: Keith is to not, under any circumstances, have his morning cereal.





	Electric Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nessietime](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nessietime).



> [throws confetti]: hey, MTV, welcome to my crib.
> 
> This was written for the Sheith secret santa exchange over on Tumblr. I had a lot of fun writing this, allowing me to be indulgent and having soft Sheiths, which is a change from my regular craving for angst. I ended up mixing together a few of the prompts from my recipient together for this. I, too, agree that it was tragic that Shiro cut his hair, we could have had so much.
> 
> As per usual, in-beta'd, all mistakes are mine, etc, etc, etc.
> 
> Title is from a Foals song. Listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6d7pYYfW_hg).
> 
> Edit: oh, damn, I done realized how many mistakes are in this, I'm certainly a fool for not getting some kind of beta.

The crinkle of plastic is the only noise that projects into the silence of the room, the sound almost obtrusive against the collected calm that’s settled onto every available surface within the kitchen.

Keith has never been a morning person as far as he can remember. He's never been the type to find enough effort to completely disentangle himself from that all-consuming embrace of unconsciousness that so desperately tries to coax him back into. Keith has never been able to wake with a smile forming on his lips, eyes wide open, and a yawn that's supposed to push away the last lingering remnants of sleep, and be ready to face the day like those commercials depict with such ease.

The lilac-eyed man has a less dignified, less graceful manner of pulling himself from bed, from groaning about the time, the amount of sunlight pressed against his closed eyes, to leaving his bed, to pressing (re: slamming down, reaching blindly toward the sound from under the blankets, his hand shoving around any object in its path without regard) the snooze button repeatedly until enough irritation forces him from under the safe comfort of thick blankets. His eyes squint at the light filtered into minced strips from behind the blinds, smearing warm colors along the walls and over the dressers and right into his eyes. Keith is squinting, a displeased groan that's lodged in his throat waiting to push pass the back of his teeth.

It's a routine, a linear script that doesn't deviate, that leaves no room for anything that could make a mess of the writing enough to be changed. It's a routine that Keith hates, always has, but all he can do is shift his limbs, crack his spine and prepare for the long grind of sleep trying to coax him back into self-oblivion for the next hour.

His image of post-sleep is so unlike the way Keith carries himself: he's so soft and malleable when he's in this state, too susceptible to all kinds of influence trying to get into the exposed delicate and vulnerable parts of his body.

Keith grunts, his brows coming together, his lips somewhat thinning as he tugs on the plastic harder, annoyed that the plastic isn’t giving as it’s preventing him access from the desired nourishment it harbors within. There’s vestiges of sleep that still clings against the corners of his eyes, the heavy film leisurely thinning but not fast enough for Keith to really consider finding another way into the bag—oh, an innocent pair of scissors that sits out of sight in a drawer not even five feet away, but Keith’s ever dulled awareness, made vulnerable by post-sleep hunger and an attention span dwindled into a single-minded objective to get to the cereal inside, begins to take a quick decent into irritation.

Keith tugs harder on the plastic, his fingers becoming harsh in their grip, losing his patience that’s hardly gained traction since waking up not even five minutes previously, and begins to add an almost unnecessary force to rip the plastic open.

He really could use those scissors.

With a mind that’s hardly suited for anything after breaching the surface from under the waves of oblivion, Keith doesn’t consider it.

It’s then with a tearing cry that the plastic opens and it spills itself all over the counter, its now-precious insides smearing around the counter and on the floor and probably reaches under other orifices, although Keith’s mind doesn’t comprehend anything outside of finally, _finally_ being one step closer to devouring his cereal.

Really, those scissors.

_Why, yes, I think I will waste half a bag of cereal all over the floor and feed the roaches that have taken up residence in my house because I just love to rip open a bag of fucking plastic with absolutely no sense that I’m going to regret cleaning up later._

_Quite thrilling._

There’s a kind of single-minded attention that comes with a mind that hasn’t fully figured out how to function immediately when finally emerging from the oblivious wonder that has settled over the mind for hours on end, unable to navigate through the disorientation and non-awareness that’s left it so defenseless that even the most meager task (that poor plastic) becomes tackled with a gross misuse of force and tired irritation at not getting near-immediate results. 

Keith’s mind takes a while to understand that he’s looking at what now is a battlefield littered with metaphorical downed soldiers of cereal, dulled indigo-like eyes not really seeing the damage and utter mess that he’s going to gawk at himself for causing, but it doesn’t really register.

Keith’s admitted to himself a long time ago that he’s not really a morning person.

With one hand lifting to rub at his eyes, smearing at already mused hair, another half-hearted attempt to rub at the morning tiredness that’s collected there, Keith ambles toward the fridge, feet pushing through pieces of cereal that are in the way (really, he should do something about that, but it’s such a faraway thought in a corner at the back of his mind that morning light hasn’t reached), as he almost mindlessly opens the fridge. It’s amazing how the body can fulfill the shortcomings of the mind when faced with fulfilling desires the mind doesn’t have the capacity to completely understand or having the cognitive function to figure out how to accomplish it.

Keith grunts with picking up the gallon of milk (huh, it feels half-full, but that thought is a mere collection of words that doesn’t stay put in his mind to really register) and for that matter, a gallon of whole milk—somewhere, Lance is gasping in horror at the _audacity_ Keith has to drink so many fats and allowing all that in his body. In a distant memory, Lance's voice becomes filtered through, his tongue already forming questions about why Keith isn’t drinking the _beautiful, amazing, flawless_ almond milk.

(“It’s just milk, Lance,” and its sort of a deadpan,  _you should know this already_ , tone.

“‘ _Its just milk, Lance’,_ ” and there’s a mocking overtone, dramatic and highly nasal, that causes Keith’s brow to furrow, a tug at the corners of his mouth to cause them to curl downward. “Do you even _know_ just what you’re putting into your body? How have you not read the back of the label and see just how much junk you’re drinking?”

“I don’t see why this is even an issue.”

“Just go drink an entire gallon of fat. And while you’re at it, do something not caveman for once and buy some almond milk.”

“Almond… milk?” and it’s slow, tasting the foreign texture of the words.

A scandalized look, followed up with, “I can’t believe this, how has Shiro not enlightened you yet?”)

Keith doesn’t really care what kind of milk it is—whole, fat free, skim, two percent—whatever it is, as long as he has something to put in his cereal (or oat meal whenever Shiro decides it), he doesn’t really care.

Though there is a slight preference for whole milk since he likes the fuller, thicker taste and heaviness it has when compared to all the other versions of milk.

It doesn’t matter, none of it does, not when Keith is so close to satisfying the hunger that’s scraping its nails against the walls of his empty stomach, almost to the point of harmful and pained. Maybe if he waits long enough, there might be blood at the back of his tongue and along the corner of his mouth and maybe a mess all over his feet.

Just when Keith is about to reach into the cabinet for a bowl (any bowl, any size, it doesn’t matter to Keith, he’ll refill the bowl for thirds or fourths, he _really_ doesn’t care), there’s a distinct sound of a groan, footsteps making themselves known in the morning silence, the floor sounding an announcement of another presence making its way to his location. Keith doesn’t really pay attention, mind barely able to maintain focusing on more than one task, but his cognitive functions are slowly making a comeback.

With the nearly-decimated bag of cereal in hand, a bowl in the other, a yawn at the end of the ebony-haired man’s tongue, Keith barely manages a turn of his head, and a, “morning, Shiro,” before his mind is back focusing on finally having himself a delightful meal of cereal and what will probably consist of three or four more bowls of it. Heavy footsteps sound from somewhere behind Keith, a yawn that’s projected into the air of smeared warm colors from outside the blinds, and that’s all Keith gets before there’s a heavy weight that settles almost forcefully against the back of his person.

There’s a weight that rolls onto his right shoulder that’s followed by a soft, slow pulse of heated air against the back of the lithe man’s shoulder and down his shoulder blade to fade out down the back of the dark tank top that sits loosely against Keith’s frame. There’s a solid entrapment around his waist, encircling them, pulling on them until Keith is settled against a solid wall of heat and muscle.

Ah, yes, Shiro also isn’t a morning person.

Shocking that the Golden Boy of the Garrison wasn’t so golden all the time.

Keith grunts, acknowledging Shiro’s presence against his back but continues to move about as though Shiro hasn’t just plastered himself to Keith’s being. It’s practiced, an eased movement that hardly falters in its routine until the moment Shiro’s added bulk decides to become a dead weight. Keith is moving to reach the drawer with all the spoons (oh, they didn’t do the dishes last night, there might not be any spoons and isn’t it funny the way there’s these sparse and almost disconnected thoughts barely creates any impact against his mind) before there’s Shiro’s arms tightening somewhat around Keith’s waist where they were grasping loosely.

“You weren’t in bed when I woke up,” and it’s thick with the aftereffects of sleep and smeared warmly against Keith’s shoulder, roughened with the non-usage of his voice for so long. Keith hums a distracted confirmation.

“Hungry.”

Shiro makes a sound, low and somewhat gruff, warm at the back of Keith’s shoulder as Shiro’s head lolls to the side, forehead still pressed to his shoulder as it turns until it’s laying against it. Shiro is obviously not thinking of where Keith is going as he moves with Keith across the kitchen, the smaller male’s body creating a convenient blockade against the sunlight that comes close to being abrasive against the sleepy male’s closed eyes.

“Should come back to bed, ‘s warm and not here,” and ah, Shiro must have just rolled out of bed if he’s using that short kind of enunciation, thick with sleep and non-care for trying to sound anything like the dignified way Shiro carries upon his back. There’s a rough scratch of a morning stubble on Shiro's face, warm breath that skims along Keith’s neck as Shiro’s nose travels along the slope of the dark-haired man’s neck, through the sleep-mused hair that covers the skin there, moving strands without any thought to it. It tugs on the strands, light, without purpose, as Shiro’s forehead settles on the valley of Keith’s neck, becoming a mere useless weight placed there.

It’s another time where Keith grows leisure in taking care of the length of his hair, the strands becoming unruly, curling down his shoulders, barely touches along Keith’s shoulder blades. There’s a subtle wave to Keith’s hair, curling at the ends along his skin, covering his ears—

(A sniffle, a dramatic wipe of the eyes, and, “oh, my word, did Keith _finally_ get rid of his mullet? I’m so happy for you, my dude,” and there’s this mock tear-stained quality in between the spaces of those words, and oh, it’s not done, flourishing with, “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Lance,” and it’s sort of annoyed, and Keith thinks to point out that maybe Lance doesn't actually know what a mullet actually looks like and needed a convenient insult at the time, and that this is somewhat of a part-time thing and he just cut his hair again, like, several months ago. He thinks better of it, letting that emotion deflate before it can achieve anything, becoming mostly distracted indifference, “I’m not even going to dignify that.”)

—and it’s now facing even more of a tangle epidemic now that Shiro’s face is pushed into the strands, warm breath that finds its way through the strands, not even an afterthought to his movements that could suggest Shiro's even mildly aware that he's tangling the strands even more.

Keith knows he would normally put his hair up, he’d collect the unruly strands and band them together in a messy bun or ponytail that’s become his usual signature of style over the last couple of months; however, it’s the morning, it’s too early to think, it’s too early to care outside of the demand of his stomach to live in the present with regard to anything and everything outside his tunnel vision objective.

“Hungry,” and he’s at those sparsely-worded answers because his focus is bound and determined to accomplish the task at hand. Keith distantly is aware of the scratch of Shiro’s face against his skin, the stubble that is determined to line itself along Shiro’s jawline with each passing morning, the morning breath that clings to Shiro's tongue and between his teeth, the weight of warmed muscle against his back and slumping against the coal-haired man intent unintentionally making his body the crutch it keeps itself upright with. If it were in any other circumstance, Keith would lean into it, he'd allow himself the moment of defenseless vulnerability and sink back into this, enjoying that all-consuming warmth that runs along his skin and in his blood and through every important piece that is Keith's being. It's a nice feeling, Shiro's being, and the violet-eyed man is aware that Shiro indulges in the feeling of it.

But now, Keith’s mind is focused on the cereal so close to the destination Keith wishes for it to go: his stomach.

Shiro grunts, not really acknowledging the word, continuing to lean against the smaller male, but his arms seem to find their purpose around Keith’s waist, tightening around Keith’s midsection where Shiro's hands rest on either side of Keith's waist, pulling the red paladin against him. Shiro is a solid line of muscle against his back, contouring along his spine, trying to reshape itself to fit in between the spaces between his vertebrae, the gaps between Keith’s ribs—all without thought, without purpose, clouded with post-sleep unconscious intent the Shiro’s unfocused mind perpetuates so easily in the morning.

This is a familiar scene: it’s the heat of Shiro’s body, solid and compact and real against his back, the hands on his waist, the mouth along his neck, a low, “good morning,” that’s spread along the skin of his neck, flourished with a smile there, and the steps Keith takes are linear with the same outcome. He’d turn around, he’d face the man behind him, a smile that’s hinging on the cornier of his mouth with his own hands on the taller man’s face, a good morning on his tongue that’s given to Shiro through a kiss. The younger man would bring up his hands and push them into the long strands of Shiro's hair, admire the softness of the strands between his fingers, and his fingers would meet at the back of Shiro's head, using the leverage to bring Shiro's mouth down to his own to press morning kisses along that stubbled jaw.

This is a break of that linear story.

Keith makes a sound, a slight furrow of his brow, his attention focused on the cereal (Keith's mind doesn't really register the name of the cereal even after reading the box) that’s half-out of the bag on the counter that Keith has somewhat of the urge to eat off, which, hey, he’s cleaning up his mess, no one can particularly call him out for that. It’s a little caveman-like, but at this point, Keith doesn’t really care. Keith maneuvers across the floor, Shiro following, still clinging to him, as Keith reaches for the fridge, intent on having milk, as Shiro noses further into his neck, huffing, his eyes not even open, and allowing his body to move with Keith’s. There’s an unconscious trust that Keith will guide him and there’s no chance of danger that will befall him because he’s not paying attention.

(It’s always been there, it’s always been at the underside of all of Shiro’s actions, in between the spaces of his words, in everything that has to do with Keith’s being.)

The heat that’s settled against Shiro’s being is nice, it’s soft, it’s inviting, and it’s all these other pleasant feelings that begin to add up beneath his skin, the feeling filling the vast emptiness that’s settled into Shiro’s mind. The process is slow, the steady leak that begins to fill his lungs until it’s the only thing that Shiro’s mind begins to latch onto, until it’s the only thing that he wants to fill his being with, until his blood saturates with it. He doesn’t think ahead enough to discern if Keith will notice, if he wants to know, because Shiro’s mind begins to develop a single-minded intent.

Shiro’s mouth finds pale skin beneath the strands, his morning stubble grazing against the fading sleep-warmed skin, turning his head to languidly drag his mouth along the arch there, pushing at strands of blackened hair, catching against the moisture beginning to collect against the corners of Shiro’s mouth. There’s a twitch under his mouth, a brief spasm of muscles, before the skin beneath Shiro’s mouth pulls away only for Shiro to follow the movement, undeterred.

There’s a curl of something at the corner of Keith’s face, lips thinning slightly, brows coming together, and he maneuvers his head away from that seeking mouth, trying to focus more on the cereal in front of him, so close to his hands, so close to being able to eat it. There’s a low sound at the back of the pale-skinned man’s throat, small in frequency but tinged with disapproval as Keith is a little too hungry to really be in the mood for Shiro’s morning antics.

“Shiro,” comes sleep-tired and somewhat repelling, and when that doesn’t get the taller man’s attention, he tries a more forceful enunciation of Shiro’s name, all of which earns him a grunt, a small push of Shiro’s hips into the lower end of the red paladin’s back, the counter stopping Keith from being pushed any further. The movement jostles Keith’s hands, of which were gripping onto nothing solid to resist, into pushing the bowl of cereal away, creating a clearing through the mess on the counter. There’s a hint of a soured expression that settles into the edges of Keith’s face, the mere idea that there’s something standing in the way of the food he really wants not being a welcome reality.

The smaller man angles his head, glancing behind him, gaining an eyeful of black hair smeared with a stripe of white that’s messy and unkept before turning back around, re-focusing on the cereal.

Shiro’s mind is never functional when he has peeled himself away from the inviting arms of sleep, where everything is an array of muted sounds at the back of his mind, somewhere out of sight, out of mind, colors that dull the farther it gets to the corners of his eyes, anything not in the immediate vicinity of his direct sight becoming a mere short-term memory that’s quickly discarded. There are times when Keith appreciates this; this warm and vulnerable time that's untouched by the outside, soft and malleable enough for Keith to influence when the half-Galra wants something that Shiro normally would take time to convince. Should Keith ever feel that inkling of guilt for allowing himself to use Shiro's sleep-influenced mind to begin to spread along the inside of his chest, Keith remembers how much Shiro, too, likes it when Keith in the same position for his own influence.

But none of that really matters to Shiro at this point as it's all a moot point when there’s Keith, a solid presence, a complete being of heat and warmed skin, that’s in the center of his reality, and everything reasserts itself to make Keith the center of focus.

Everything else is just background noise and static on a television.

The older male’s mind is still lagging behind, not really trying to catch up with the delay, and yes, Keith is speaking, or something, but it’s not really important when Shiro’s fingers are itching to press into heated flesh and how nice it would feel under the pads of his fingers. The mere idea of how soft it is that gives a hint of solid muscle underneath is enough to spur the taller man into action. Shiro’s mouth lifts, leaning into Keith’s body, his weight shifting, leaning more against the black-haired male, as his licks at the uncovered skin of Keith's shoulders, mouth opening to drag his tongue across the skin, not minding the strands of hair that get caught in the path his tongue leaves. There’s a faded hint of salt at the end of Shiro’s tongue, registering somewhere in Shiro’s mind that Keith hasn’t bothered to shower, some piece of his sleep-fragmented mind enjoying the prospect that Keith still has a day’s worth of musk clinging to his body.

(Shiro enjoy it when he can bury his nose into Keith’s neck where there’s a post-training session that clings to the skin there, drag his nose along the underside of Keith’s arms and the hair of Keith's armpit where there’s a soured salty smell of sweat that lingers there, push his face between those pale legs and collect the taste that lingers on the half-Galra's inner thighs into his body and store it away inside his chest for later mulling over. Shiro indulges it, he allows himself to immerse in the air inside his lungs and sink into his blood and use the highway that are the veins and arteries to spread to every piece of Shiro’s body, letting the essence that is Keith's being immerse into his system.)

The scarred man does allow himself to breathe in, taking in the smell that is lightly resting against the skin beneath his mouth, and pressing his face back into the curve of that skin. His arms begin to move, one lifting from Keith’s waist where they’ve found a temporary home against the bones there, and letting his hand ascend along the flat plane of Keith’s stomach, Shiro's hand dragging against the light material of the tank top that clings loosely to the frame there, and skimming upward before his fingers fit in between the younger male’s arm and ribs. The other arm tightens around Keith’s waist as it somewhat compensates for the loss of Shiro's arm.

There’s a low scrape of heat, its blunted nails dragging across lilac-eyed man's spine, in an effort to fit in between his vertebrae, but it’s an indiscriminate feeling compared to the hunger that is the loudest at demanding attention within Keith's body. It's the brightest feeling, sure to make itself the most noticeable when it’s reminding Keith of its presence as it scratches at the barren walls of the dark-haired man’s stomach. Keith grunts something intelligible, but it’s of a displeased nature, messily formed and not much of a structure, but it’s still something, as he tries to angle his head away from Shiro’s seeking mouth.

“Shiro,” but that’s not really diverting the larger man’s attention, especially when Keith can feel the beginnings of morning arousal forming from from a vague feeling into a physically tangible force along his lower back. There’s a formed piece of a moan that sits at the back of Keith’s throat when Shiro’s seeking hand brushes against his left nipple, the material of the tank top rubbing against it before it shakes apart when Keith’s stomach attempts a successful garner of his attention back.

That cereal is a mocking presence as it sits on the counter, pieces of it scattered around the bowl, the milk gathering condensation on its plastic container and leaks onto the counter that's silently telling him that time is steadily passing, that he’s making so little progress in feeding himself as time begins its own taunting when more condensation rolls down the jug. There’s a frustrated noise that dislodges itself from his lungs and up his throat before Keith can really stop it, but it hardly does anything to stop Shiro’s endeavors.

Normally Keith would welcome this, tilt his head back, angle his neck, and meet with Shiro’s mouth. He’d indulge in the hands that roam his body, fingers intent in their purpose as they traverse the skin on his body. Fingers with lazy movements that feature morning tiredness that has no need for anything rushed, all of it culminating in Keith’s hips pushed against the counter and finger-shaped bruises along his hips and deep, heavy breathing in Keith’s ear that’s almost abrasive with how much heat is embedded in them, his own fingers digging into a countertop with nothing for him to maintain a grip, Shiro pushing into his body leisurely and unhurriedly.

That doesn’t happen.

There’s this destruction of the regular script: Keith is pulling away, twisting his upper body, enough movement to draw the broad man’s attention from his neck, the other man knowing Shiro’s sleep-muddled mind is barely functioning beyond the present moment. Keith appreciates that sight in a regular setting, the unguarded, non-graceful way Shiro goes about, the rugged appearance and roughened skin from morning stubble, the white of his hair a mess and in different angles. He likes those slate-colored eyes glazed with sleep still clinging to him, the walls that aren’t in place—Keith loves so much of this morning version of Shiro that he’s kept to himself, for his eyes only, but now? Now isn’t the time when hunger is trying to wedge itself in front of the half-Galran’s path to relieving himself of the feeling that steadily irritates his stomach.

Shiro’s mind is languidly piercing the murky veil of water that has been so intent on drowning everything within Shiro’s mind, his cognitive functions beginning to present more than his body’s basic functions. However, Shiro’s hasn't really been able to escape how it lags in the morning, so susceptible to in-the-moment gestures, to achieving very short-term goals like figuring out why Keith is pulling away and why he’s not up for the morning sex that they have a lot of in their own kitchen.

(And what a marvel that is cause Shiro will mull over that marvelous fact, roll those words along his tongue and indulge the taste of it because those words never fail to bring in that warmth to inside of his chest: it’s their own kitchen, it’s their own space, their own piece of life that’s specifically carved out for them.

Their own quiet piece of life among trees and a view with an ocean as the backdrop with dozens of drink vending machines littering every street corner that are always somehow filled no matter how much Keith tries to catch someone restocking them, each time a failed endeavor.

It's where Shiro can look outside and be at ease with the scenery, where the Sakuragicho Train Station houses the hustle and bustle of people trying to make their own way, where he can see a string of small-time restaurants that has more of a hole-in-the-wall feeling.

Shiro’s so glad that he can be back home with Keith pressed into his side, happy his homeland would have them and their scarred bodies and violent pasts with no need for them to scrape their hands and bruise their knees in order to achieve that standard of harmony that has continued to elude them.)

Shiro’s eyes open to half-mast, in time to drink in enough sunlight to catch Keith angling his head, looking at him. This the point where Shiro is going to deliver the rest of the movement, moving forward, ready to push his tongue along Keith’s mouth and across those lips when Keith moves his head away. There’s a furrow in Shiro’s brow, a feeling left denied that demands he achieve before the bulkier man pushes forward, his chest beginning to mold to the shape of the other man’s body, pushing forward enough so Shiro can achieve that desire for warmth and the shape of that mouth against his own. Shiro desires that gentle warmth along his mouth, that tongue meeting with his own, to have Keith indulging in a shared morning kiss that, nearly all the time, always takes a heated path into far more greater things. 

Keith does catch that denied look that pulls at the edges of Shiro’s expression, his lips tilted downward at the corners, and Keith shakes himself of that sight before temptation leans too heavily against him. He tries again, his sleep-cracked voice coming in low, “Shiro, I'm trying to eat breakfast.” Keith turns his head away, back to the cereal, plum-colored eyes intent again as far as his sleepy mind can allow and reaching for a spoon and the words, “and I’m gonna eat this cereal,” coming in almost as an afterthought.

Shiro has lost most of the attention to the words that flow from his boyfriend's tongue, words that don’t mesh into the general feeling that’s settled into the scarred male’s chest, the growing desire that’s become more than a vague aftertaste at the back of his tongue. However, it doesn’t stop those words from catching into Shiro’s mind, a delayed reaction before he his brows crease, head tilting somewhat as those simple sounds register in that sleepy tavern that is Shiro’s mind.

Well, that’s not at all what Shiro wants.

Shiro doesn’t let go of Keith even though Keith leans forward, the larger man's body following the shape Keith’s body takes as he’s doing something that Shiro doesn’t really care to look at as his forehead finds a home in the curve of Keith’s neck, uninterested in what is happening outside of the warmth that permeates Keith’s skin and under his fingers. There’s rustling, something being scraped along the counter, water running as the sink is scuffed with an object, but that’s neither here nor there as Shiro pushes closer to Keith’s body, no doubt pushing Keith into the countertop, but it’s a minor detail he decides to forget. There’s more important pieces to pay attention to, Shiro decides, and any piece that doesn’t coincide with the feeling of Keith’s body under his hands and along the pads of his fingers—they aren't really worth noting, worth caring about.

Keith frowns when a hand slides up his waist, the one Shiro had around his waist, the movement languid and unhurried, to curl around to the front of Keith's waist before it meets the waistband of his sleep shorts, fingers along the edge of the hem. There’s a small swivel of hips from the older man, the small of his back subjected to the other’s movements, pushing against the other's lither body, the intent starting to become more glaring as the moments slide by.

The arm that’s around Keith’s upper chest tightens, pulling Keith back into a solid chest, against muscle that under other circumstances, would be a welcomed gesture, one of the safest places in the universe for Keith to fit himself into, but now offers a kind of hindrance that Keith doesn’t begin to think about, even now unwilling to give a kind of association to.

Keith pulls forward, resists the somewhat determined pull of the other man, his stomach providing a moral support for that decision. There's a low grunt in the back of the red paladin's throat as a mouth opens against his shoulder, teeth scraping against the skin before a tongue presses flat against the area, dragging unhurried across. Keith decides to continue with his cereal (so close) and deciding Shiro can have his fill of whatever he thinks he can get out of this when Keith is more intent to do something else.

It would cause an amused smile to grace his mouth if he were to think about it, the color that would fill the pores of Shiro’s skin, the stutter of words that fall in rushed sounds and bitten-off words, the shift of weight from foot to foot—all in an attempt of Shiro trying to deny that he’s dignified and upholding of virtue and absolutely not of a caveman variety in the mornings. Shiro would argue that he’s not so simple minded and vulnerable to sleep clinging to his mind even an hour after he’s woken up. How could anyone insinuate that Shiro isn’t the Golden Boy everyone’s come to know, he’s not that single minded after he wakes up, he just—he needs a little time to gather himself into a presentable image with sharpened edges and smoothed surfaces and polished mirrors, with his bed made with precise forty-five angled folds at the corners of his bed and a crisp uniform to go.

Keith would be smiling, he would be thinking how Shiro is so vulnerable without coffee and time to be presentable.

He really would.

He would if it weren’t so intent of trying to keep him from his breakfast and the rising intent it displays against the small of the dark-haired man’s back.

Metal fingers begin to push past the hem of Keith’s shorts, pressing against warm skin, slipping under the material as they settle against the skin at indent where Keith's leg meets his waist, slightly curling against the skin, settling there, as though there’s something else that they require to happen in order to proceed.

Keith still acts as though Shiro lazily falling into a mood where he’s ready to hear his name at the end of Keith’s tongue spoken so breathlessly and the space in between each later filled with desire isn't really bothering him. Keith resists further, knowing what he wants now, not willing to let himself fall.

Keith finishes up scraping the cereal into the sink, knowing he could easily be rid of it in the trash, but knowing it’s a little difficult to maneuver around with solid mass against his body that’s twice his own weight that is resting heavily against him as though it wasn't acting like dead weight. When Keith has enough of the mess cleared, he’s back to the milk, slick with moisture and having began creating its own puddle on the counter, and just when Keith is ready to pour his milk (why is this such a difficult feat, why are there so many things that don’t want him to eat, why, why, why, fucking _why_ —) when teeth close around his neck, pulling on the skin before a tongue soothes over the area as Shiro's hand at his ribs slides down his side until it meets the bottom of Keith's tank top to dip under the hem to meet with the skin underneath.

This time, a more pressing, “Shiro,” is tinged with a more tangible annoyance, a need to pull Shiro out of his mood, “I’m eating this cereal,” and it may as well have been silent and unheard as the black paladin trails his mouth against Keith’s ear, nosing through the hair that falls along his ear—

(There's a mirror that levels a stare back at Keith's as he studies himself in the mirror, his violet-colored eyes precise and sharp, as they roam over his form in search of something. It's been on Keith's mind for a while, it's been trailing at the edges of his heels as Keith continues to consider himself.

Sometimes Keith forgets that he is half-Galra, certainly the others can forget, even Shiro, because there really isn't any physical evidence on his person to remind him of his heritage, to tell him that he belongs to more than just one race. It's not like Lotor's, a subtle mixture that leans more toward an Altean look though the yellow sclera and light purple-tinged skin that gives away to Galran heritage. He's not like Lotor's generals, he's not like any of the other mixed race Galra that have blends of their features exposed loudly on their bodies.

Having mixed genes is a funny thing, Keith would suppose, especially considering how they choose to display themselves, and Keith would like to think that those genes express themselves differently and not every person who is mixed with something may have prominent features from the races they are mixed with. Perhaps Keith hasn't begun to show any of them, perhaps he's a late bloomer, maybe there's something that's waiting to trigger a response in them, but so far, there's nothing but alabaster-colored skin, his nails remain blunt and soft, his canines don't lengthen beyond their place.

If Keith chooses to think about it, when there’s nothing else to distract him from the ignored pile of issues that Keith keeps in the back of his mind where light is surely to ever reach, when even the background noise can no longer serve to be something viable to focus on, all those pieces, those questions with no answers begin to push, smear their fingers along his mind, leaving emotion that’s sticky and thick along the walls, becoming so messy the longer it continues.

The feelings are unsatisfying, they add to his general discontent he pretends that hasn’t had years to fester at his feet as it brings more questions of where he’s supposed to belong, if he’s supposed to be welcomed there when even his own human counterparts took a look at him and decided he wasn’t worth enough to keep around. If he’s had such a hard time being accepted by humans with a type of unconditional feelings toward him, what makes him think that with his Galra heritage, that he’s only recently discovered, that he’ll find a place amongst them, an acceptance, something he refuses to let himself dwell on how much he’s wanted that as he watched every opportunity leave him back on the doorstep of the orphanage he had grown too used to returning to?

He shares nothing with them, he doesn't know their customs, he doesn't know anything about them beyond the angry musings of Allura and the bitter memories that trail behind her, to Kolivan's own tight-lipped way and sparse words about the Galra outside of their mission to defeat Zarkon. If he doesn't know anything, if he doesn't even look like them, even having indiscriminate features just enough to tell another Galra, how is Keith supposed to know where he stands with that race?

What a bitter aftertaste it continues to leave at the back of his tongue.)

—and oh, Shiro is still breathing against his ear with a heavy heat that’s already in the works of becoming a force against the lilac-eyed man’s skin.

(However, Keith doesn’t know what he’d do if his physical appearance took on a full Galra look. Keith doesn't know if that is impossible, if somewhere down the road they decide to reveal themselves full and take complete control of his physical appearance.

Maybe there'll be Shiro’s soft laughter in his ears, a hand atop his head with nails running along the back of his new Galra ears, and the low, amused sound of Shiro’s voice with, “you’d do well at cosplay conventions in Akihabara. Though, I’d avoid the maid cafes, you’d be too cute for them to let you go,” and lips against his forehead with a smile behind them. It’s continued with, “I’d hate to have to fight people off to keep you.”)

Shiro is oblivious to the thoughts that fill the rivers of Keith’s mind, his attention more fixated on his mouth biting at Keith's ears, tugging on it before his tongue runs along the outside curve and down the skin to allow his teeth to find the lobe, sealing his lips over it as his teeth gently grasp onto it. There’s a twitch in the muscle underneath Shiro’s fingers, Keith’s body resisting the urge to pull taut at the increased sensation that pushing against ends of his nerves.

Keith won’t admit it, he doesn’t want to, but with Shiro’s ministrations, combined with pliant way his body tends be after he has pulled himself from sleep, his body is much more susceptible to Shiro’s touch. The coal-haired male tries to will his resolve to not crack at its foundation the longer Shiro’s mouth worries at the skin of his neck, the longer those fingers brush against the skin against his hip, underneath his sleep shorts—it’s a cocktail of sensation that begins to seep under his skin that’s been made vulnerable by sleep and warm blankets. Keith is trying to hold onto the fading irritation of not being able to eat, tries to push away the arousal that’s beginning a leisure rise in his stomach.

He really wants this cereal, goddammit.

That hunger makes itself known again as it bites heavily at the barren walls of his stomach, enough for Keith to grasp onto it with eager hands against the rising arousal with just enough force to push it aside. Raising one hand, angling his head, Keith places that hand against Shiro’s forehead, hair crinkling under his palm, and pushes, enough to move Shiro’s head back, turning his head to look at the older man, noting that the touch turns firm around his body. Keith tries to firm the lines on his own face, to pull his most reprimanding frown but finding it difficult to grasp at the effort for it, as well as trying to resist the sleepy, somewhat dazed look on Shiro’s face. He tries to not pay attention to the pinched brows, the messy forelock of hair there, the soft skin under the smaller man’s palm, even those eyes with sleep-warmed affection and arousal that paints the backdrop and—Keith shakes himself, unwilling to let himself continue to lament Shiro’s messy appearance.

“Shiro,” is reprimanding, trying to harden the edges of his voice, “I’m trying to eat here,” and Keith knows that he might as well be talking to the counter as he doesn’t see much recognition beyond a vague acknowledgement of his words because Shiro just presses against Keith’s palm. Keith thinks of how his heart really wasn’t set on keeping Shiro away as his arm collapses, palm still pressed to Shiro’s forehead as Shiro’s neck cranes to push his lips against the half-Galra’s face, lingering on the skin of Keith’s cheek before letting his head fall onto Keith’s shoulder, the hand pressing against the white forelock falling away.

Shiro hums, a sort of acknowledgement of Keith’s words, but at least he’s stopped in his endeavor, and Keith can go back to his cereal, and that languid heat at the underside of his stomach can begin to dissipate.

But Keith should know by now how stubborn Shiro is in the morning when it comes to anything.

“You do that,” comes Shiro’s voice, roughened and scratchy, “I’ll just…” and Shiro doesn’t try to finish, instead lifting his head to place his lips where the dark-haired man’s shoulder meets his arm, another flat press of lips above that area until Shiro is pressing small kisses up the slope of the younger man’s shoulder and neck, seemingly Shiro's favorite place, and flourishing with the flat of his tongue licking against Keith’s neck.

There’s a sigh in Keith’s throat, an eyeroll, as he tries to refocus on the task he’s been trying to fulfill for the last ten minutes. Shiro’s single-minded persistence is becoming a bright spot that Keith is finding harder to ignore, something he can’t completely brush off as it begins to interlope and intrude into Keith’s space. Every push of limbs, every stroke of fingers along Keith’s skin, the low grind of Shiro’s hips into the small of Keith’s back—they’re normally welcome, those movements are familiar gestures that Keith loves but this—this different setting and goal that doesn’t share the same destination that Shiro wants to take them on.

Fine, if Shiro wants to be this way, wants to spread himself along the younger man until he has no choice but to let Shiro in, Keith can play this game.

Keith’s resolve calcifies into a physical determination: he’s going to ignore Shiro, he’s going to act as though Shiro isn’t a pressing issue, and with that, Shiro’s own advancements will fall away into the background until it’s no longer something to be concerned with.

At least, until Keith can eat his cereal, then he can deal with it.

It’s now become a battle of wills, who can persuade the other to give in and wait or advance into the next stage area.

Keith has proven among many occasions to be stubborn, when his mind is set on something he truly believes, his intent becomes tunnel vision and resolve becomes ironclad to the point where people around him have almost no chance of persuading him to go about it differently. Keith’s good at being stubborn, he’s perfected it, and it’s become part of his brand.

However, there’s always that weakened link on the chain: Shiro knows how to be his Achilles heel.

Shiro has a more feathery approach: with kind words that have a kind of intelligent appeal enough to push past someone’s defense. Shiro is composed strategy, he is about winning the war, and will slow his stride to cover the entire distance of the argument. It becomes formidable as Shiro appeals to too many sides of a person’s defenses and becomes accepted without much thought behind it.

However, that collapses in on itself and leaves a mess all around Shiro when it comes to trying to upright himself from under the lingering effects of sleep, without a motivation created the night before to combat this, leaves Shiro lacking in the elegance he tries to inject into his actions.

Keith moves back, Shiro’s arms tightening around Keith in response, the gesture unconscious, as Keith moves to find sugar, his mind awake enough to perceive that he’s about to eat a bowl of unflavored corn flakes. Keith is still in the midst of trying to ignore Shiro’s presence enough to thwart Shiro’s desire for Keith to anything but satisfy his hunger, and so far, it seems to be working with the way Shiro has backed way from his more aggressive attempts to convince Keith, and that low-grade arousal that has begun to lose its weight at the underside of his stomach lessening. The younger man thinks he can finally get somewhere, he’s not being thwarted from his original goal, and in that, he begins to let himself begin to think that this is going to become an attainable goal.

If only that were the case.

Keith miscalculates his angle toward the other counter to grasp at the small container of sugar when he moves away from the one he’s in front of, having to turn around and reach out an arm, his torso twisting to angle himself to reach behind him. The kitchen isn’t too large, but considering its location and housing companies dealing with trying to insert more people into the small spaces that are left around Yokohama, it’s larger than a lot of homes that were being offered—Keith remembers Shiro insisting they dig further into available homes for sale, not wanting to settle for the compact, living-on-top-of-each apartments that the housing companies were trying to sell them. The younger man is grateful for Shiro’s insistence that in the end, got them a house instead of the smaller apartments that was being pressed upon them. 

But when Keith twists, to reach behind him for the sugar, having taken a few steps away from the counter to extend his reach, it upheaves Shiro, forcing his body to shift to accommodate the change in angle of Keith’s body, shifting to the side, hands orienting themselves while still trying to maintain their grip. Shiro is no longer a source of heat at Keith’s back, but it’s when Keith turns back around, the small container of sugar in hand, that he comes face to face with Shiro’s chest half in his peripheral.

Keith wants to groan in frustration that Shiro has shifted and is now on his side. partially against his front, pressing against him there.

This new position puts Shiro in a direct path to Keith’s mouth, ash-colored eyes focusing on the soft line of Keith’s mouth, now shifting and orienting himself to trying to embrace Keith’s body from the front, somewhere at the back of his mind deciding this was a batter position than the previous, and begins to push against the smaller male. Those eyes watch that mouth thin, the tick at the corner of Keith’s jaw, the way the skin moves and there’s a thought that unfurls at the front of Shiro’s mind about how he wants to lick at it and press the flat of his tongue along the skin there.

Shiro’s moving before he’s put any thought to it but Keith catches him in time, moving the angle of his head out of Shiro’s way which only causes Shiro’s lips to press against his cheek, the morning stubble collected around his mouth making itself known against the skin there.

There’s another matter at hand: Shiro’s morning breath, which is a somewhat bitter scent that Keith recognizes that brings light touches of a grimace influencing Keith’s features.

“At least go brush your teeth, Shiro,” but Shiro doesn’t really acknowledge that, not when he’s still caught up in the idea of Keith’s body heat pressed against his own a more inviting idea. Instead of dignifying Keith with an answer, Shiro opens his mouth to drag his tongue across Keith’s cheek, collecting salt and strands of hair against it, not caring because it’s the taste of Keith along his tongue.

Shiro’s arms are another matter, winding around Keith where his arms rest against the lithe man’s back, hands coming to rest along the other’s ass, hands seeking purpose under the tank top, splayed along the hemline of Keith’s sleep shorts before those hands retract to push under the clothing. Keith stiffens, realizing the new access Shiro has in this position and how this is now becoming a real detriment to eating his cereal, and knows that he has to act in order to get his cereal.

With the way Shiro’s hands are wondering down his pants and trying to grip at his ass, one hand curling over his lower back and fitting into the top of the crease of Keith’s ass, knowing exactly where those wandering fingers are trying to get to, Keith has to pull back.

In any other situation, Keith would admire how Shiro is being proactive, that he’s initiating because there have been so many gestures between them about how Shiro will wait for Keith, allow him to be the one who initiates, being proactive, that as much as Keith likes to be the one who allows his hands the first touch of the midnight-haired man’s skin, along those slightly raised scars and battle-roughened skin, along areas of less confidence in their appearance as Keith soothes over them, the red paladin does enjoy when Shiro wants to make the move. Shiro’s touch is gentle, it’s bordered between soft and firm, but always finds a way to be a touch that Keith craves, that he wants.

Keith would marvel at the times that Shiro would allow himself to have something, allow himself to want, to desire, and think that he deserves them after a lifetime of believing that he shouldn’t be allowed to let himself have anything. Keith remembers those late nights of allowing Shiro to wrap around him, his hands that threaten to shake apart as they find Keith’s back, pants of air that are wet with negative emotions that are below Keith’s ear, and a face that presses into his shoulder that Keith will not tell Shiro that he knows has moisture that leaks along Keith’s neck. Keith won’t tell Shiro of the present, he won’t tell him of things that are happening to him right now because all he knows is to allow Shiro to let go, to let himself be vulnerable, to let Shiro become human in his arms and allow him the bliss of knowing he can grieve and become weak without someone telling him what he looks like in this moment of fragility.

Keith loves Shiro’s initiation, Keith loves when Shiro is confident enough to push Keith down and allow himself to initiate everything, he really does.

In this moment, however, Keith isn’t really in the mood quite yet to want Shiro to have initiative.

Keith knows that if he were to truly want Shiro to stop, he’d back away, disentangle himself from Keith without a single word of actual protest, maybe a grumble in there, abut he would leave it be, and Keith isn’t entirely opposed to Shiro’s advances, it’s just he’s hungry and wants time to be truly awake enough to enjoy Shiro’s sleepy state, knowing Shiro isn’t going to indulge in coffee to be rid of it faster. Instead, Keith does sigh as Shiro moves his face into Keith’s neck, stubble brushing against the underside of Keith’s jaw, somewhat ticklish, as Shiro seems to settle there completely.

Shiro hums, making no attempt to move, his mouth seeking the skin of Keith’s neck again as he moves far enough to where his fingers seek to push between Keith’s cheeks to stroke along Keith’s opening, the dry touch having a low friction and enough to pull a shudder from Keith. The feeling lingers the longer Shiro lets his fingers move, the pressure light enough to not push his finger inside but enough to put pressure on it, catching the rim, but enough for Keith to know that Shiro’s intent is becoming serious.

Nonetheless, there is always a weakness Keith has that he’s not sure that Shiro knows he exploits: it’s the hard, nearly inconceivable notion that Keith would ever deny Shiro something.

The red paladin knows that if it were to truly come down to it, he’d never deny Shiro anything, he’d never think to close himself off to Shiro and not allow those fingers along his skin and down his back. Keith wants Shiro to know that he'll give everything of himself away if Shiro asks for it, if he demands it, and Keith would have no problem allowing Shiro those parts for himself.

With the lack of effort coming from Keith, the black paladin presses on, keeps mouthing at Keith’s skin, his body beginning to focus more on the feeling it spreads through his body. He’s ready to go further, to begin pressing his fingers against Keith more insistently, his other hand occupied with squeezing the firm flesh beneath it—Shiro is ready to do a lot more things to Keith in this kitchen, in _their_ kitchen, but the body below him shifts, squirming underneath his hands, and if Shiro were paying enough attention, there’s a slight arch in the flesh beneath his hands.

Calloused hands are exploring Keith’s backside, the skin warm and inviting on Keith’s ass, and it’s do more than enough to begin distracting Keith from the task he’s been trying to fulfill for at least fifteen minutes now. His hand waves on the container of sugar, setting it down quickly as his hands begin to grow unsteady with its grip the longer Shiro keeps stroking over his hole. There’s no lingering wetness like there usually is in the mornings as he and Shiro were too tired to do anything the previous night, falling into each other and into bed without much of a second thought to spare toward becoming closing sexually, both of them with enough energy to change into something to sleep in.

Keith’s hunger is starting to be rivaled by the growing tendrils of arousal that has begun to ascend his spine, curling against every individual vertebrate, using every nerve ending to maximize its presence, as a murky, opaque cloud begins to lay over Keith’s mind. However, it’s thin enough to where Keith still has sight of his main objective.

“Shiro, you’re not gonna stop me from eating,” and it’s supposed to be filled with annoyance, with reprimanding, but instead, there’s an undertone of breathiness, a tinge of desire that’s begun to fill in. The half-Galra wants to berate himself for languidly falling into Shiro’s hands, for the beginnings of his hunger that has started to wan in the face of the other man’s hands and intent.

“Mmm,” is the only sound Shiro makes, distracted by the skin of Keith’s neck, his mouth never tiring of latching onto the skin there, his tongue not tired of tracing indiscernible paths along the pale exterior before his teeth come in behind it, closing around the skin and pulling it into his mouth. There’s a hint of teeth in it, with every suck along the skin, with every small effort that draws blood along the underside of Keith’s skin, all the while Shiro can’t help but allow another finger to join with the other, allowing two fingers to run along the paler man’s opening that in his recovering mind, knows Keith enjoys.

Keith grits his teeth, his eyes wanting to fall shut but with the image of cereal in front of him, the milk that’s created enough water on the counter and that innocuous-looking container of sugar, it plays on his hunger, it tells him he’s so close, and the hunger that shoves against the inside of the red paladin’s stomach, it creates a warring battle in Keith’s person to gain the most traction.

The twitch in Keith’s groin when Shiro’s fingers stop their stroking to press just against Keith’s hole, threatening to push inside as Shiro finds a particular spot just under his ear with his teeth, a moan escapes from Keith’s lungs for him to slam his teeth down for it to crash into the back of them on its way to escape.

The black paladin trails his mouth along the curve of Keith’s jaw, teeth grazing against the skin, kissing along it until Shiro tries to connect their mouths together, nudging against the softness there, the slightly chapped surface doing nothing to deter him from getting to another goal. As much as the lithe man wants to roll his eyes at how susceptible he is to Shiro’s advances, though accepting Shiro's intent and a purpose in mind, he does open his mouth.

Keith pulls back, noting the morning breath that his nose wrinkles at, “you have morning breath.”

Shiro only leans forward, putting a chase kiss on those lips, and, “but you love my morning breath,” but Keith rolls his eyes but he can’t have them come across as anything but fond. Instead, Keith allows his unoccupied arm to orient from underneath Shiro’s body that’s pressed against him to find an anchor in Shiro’s shirt, gripped along the left side of Shiro’s back which is enough encouragement for Shiro to take that Keith is progressing further into his plans.

Honestly, Shiro isn’t like this, he swears by it; this is a rare appearance of him allowing his more baser feelings take hold, he can normally hold it off with a smile, but for some reason, due to whatever entity is out there, Shiro is just feeling so physical and wanting to be surrounded by the warmth of his boyfriend that it has become the one thing he fixates on without thought to anything else. It’s not unusual for them to go through their house with either one of them attached to the other, whether it’s Keith hooked onto his harm or Shiro pulling Keith’s feet into his lap and resting an arm along one the shins in place there. They like to cling to each other even in the most mundane of things, tasks that have don't need to have two people tending to them, but that doesn’t stop them from touching the other at every instance they get.

There’s nothing like lying his head in Keith’s lap and those fingers beginning to sift through Shiro’s hair, the feeling nails scratch against his head, at the base of his neck, and Shiro pushes against those hands, seeking more comfort and settling in for some moments of Keith lavishing attention on his head even if Keith isn’t mostly aware of doing it unconsciously. There’s nothing like Keith playing his hair and with little effort or coaxing, begins to braid Shiro’s hair or twisting it into little braids.

He even enjoys it when Keith can’t stop gripping it, when his fists turn harsh while they pull at those strands enough that Shiro has to fight for control as it becomes Keith’s lifeline while Shiro’s got him pinned and underneath him, writhing so prettily and unable to keep himself in control. It’s one of Shiro’s favorite things, the ache of his strands against his head, the red paladin using them for purchase enough that it makes the sensations in his body heightened and heated that Shiro is sure he could create a new solar system from the heat alone.

The desire and pleasure are clouds of dust and gasses that only needs the heat of Keith’s body to create something so new and brilliant and full of life.

Keith pulls himself out of the haze that grows in thickness along his mind before it becomes too late in order to really think if he really wants his cereal now, which thankfully, he hasn’t begun to add milk to, or if he wants Shiro to have his way and fuck he smaller man against the kitchen counter. His stomach is still protesting, still desiring food, but his dick, which has begun to attract the attention of his blood, is starting to garner for his attention, making him torn between which one will matter more in the next few minutes. At the rate that Shiro is going, if left unchecked, will begin to speed things along until the choice becomes apparent for Keith.

The older man leans in again, seeking Keith’s mouth, humming a sound of approval when Keith presses his lips to Shiro’s, the soft scrape of lightly chapped lips a welcome feeling against his own as Shiro pushes his tongue along Keith’s lips until they open merely moments after, allowing Shiro’s tongue access to Keith’s mouth. Shiro’s hands are back to their original intent as they slide back around Keith’s backside, both hands pushing under the hem of Keith’s shorts once again, moving to grip he flesh beneath, fingers indenting into the skin as the black paladin kneads at the flesh, squeezing and enjoying the feeling of it under his palms. The older man can tell Keith does like it with the way he’s pushing into those hands, encouraging Shiro to continue, an invitation that Shiro doesn’t pass up.

Keith’s other hand that was occupied with setting the sugar container down has moved toward Shiro’s hair, fingers sifting through the strands until he finds purchase with the strands closest to Shiro’s head. He grasps at them, tugging, fingers clenching, as he uses the grip to bring Shiro closer, craning his neck so he can push into the kiss as well, noting briefly how Shiro’s fingers press harder into the skin of his ass, those hands closing around his ass harder, almost at the point where there will be light traces of finger-shaped bruises along the skin.

Keith pulls away, his lungs greedy for the air they’ve been denied as Keith gives himself a moment to breathe, Shiro’s mouth following Keith’s mouth, wanting to collect all those sounds that fall from Keith’s mouth along his tongue. He instead goes the Keith’s jaw, a flash of teeth on that skin before soothing it over with long licks, traveling under the red paladin’s jaw until he meets Keith’s throat. Lips close around Keith’s Adam’s apple, sucking lightly, and moving on to the side of Keith’s neck that the black paladin has seemingly become infatuated with since he pulled himself from the bed. The hand in his hair tightens, pushing against the back of his head and into the neck Shiro has his mouth on.

In response, Shiro removes one of his hands from Keith’s ass, curving around until it’s as the side of Keith’s waist, lingering along the swell of Keith’s hip before it slides upward, underneath the tank top, moving across the half-Galra’s ribs, moving until Shiro’s hand is splayed along the skin there, his thumb coming to rest along a nipple that cause a shudder to traverse through Keith’s body. There’s a vibration of a sound along Shiro’s lips from Keith’s throat, a sound of approval, and Shiro continues to lick along that neck until he trails to Keith’s shoulder and—

Keith’s body no longer rests under his hands and mouth.

Shiro blinks, raising his head, mouth agape and hands frozen as he looks at Keith, no longer under his hands, as he moves to the counter and picks up the discarded spoon there (huh, Shiro doesn’t remember Keith pulling that out), and messing with the container of sugar.

“Keith?” and it’s unsure, the sound that has an underside of lust and confusion, as he watches Keith turn his head back to him. Shiro notes the small red marks he’s left along Keith’s neck, fingers twitching as he looks at the marred skin. His slate-colored eyes roam the messy canvas that is Keith’s figure, wanting Keith to come back and to his arms.

Keith allows a brow to raise, as though it’s something obvious.

“I said I wanted to eat first,” and it’s as though Keith is talking about something casual, and not like he had Shiro’s mouth and hands along his body. “You can have at me later, but I’d really like to eat.”

Shiro watches, dumbfounded, as Keith begins to pour milk into the cereal, blinking as Keith puts the milk back into the fridge, and continues along like nothing had just happened.

Shiro would listen to the way his arousal protests the loss of a warm body and the promise of morning release if he weren’t so taken aback by Keith’s turn of events, watching Keith pick up his bowl to go seat himself at the table. His eyes linger on Keith’s fingers, thinking how they were just in his hair moments before, the way Keith’s mouth wraps around the spoon, thinking how they were just trying to devour Shiro’s own mouth.

The taller man only sighs, straightening his posture and running a hand through his hair.

“Also,” and Shiro finds Keith looking at him, spoon pointed at him, “go take care of that morning breath before you come back.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for stickin' with me to the end, y'all. come yell at me about sheith on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bottomnoctis), i don't have much else to do.


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